Heavenly Concealment
by T'Vau
Summary: B'Elanna finds herself risking her dignity in a slippery situation.


**Ten points if you can guess what author I've been reading lately. **

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Rain hits in great dollops that plunge carelessly from the heavens, careening to the ground and, in one violent explosion, birthing a thousand more, all of which only have a few more centimeters to before they reach their own rather anticlimactic climax; they are birthed, they breed, they die. Once the mother has sufficiently shat out her young, she herself is viciously torn from this world, leaving her feeble offspring to fend for themselves. It's all very, very sad, and quite unfortunate that none live long enough to complain about it. 

Seven thinks someone should start a union.

B'Elanna is currently caught up between the displeasure of raindrops breeding in her eyes, and the pleasure of feeling wet Borg against her to think of anything else. Her chin is propped on Seven's shoulder, and her neck is really starting to hurt, but the necessary forfeit of contact is too much for the sake of comfort.

Seven traces her fingers over B'Elannas back, delighting the fine, downy soft hairs she finds there. Seven doesn't have body hair, unless you count her eyebrow. She thinks it might be why she's so transfixed, so delighted in such a nuance, one that the other woman considers a nuisance and grunts about it when Seven compliments it.

B'Elanna's hands haven't left Seven's back, and her nails are leaving faint impressions. Seven doesn't mind, but the curious part of her can't help but wonder why. She has just discovered the wonders of the gluteus maximus herself, and she finds it even more intoxicating than the hairs. She fondles it contentedly, and dimly, she wonders if this delectable rump has a similar covering. Then she worries.

"B'Elanna Torres," she asks, "Is my butt unappealing?"

B'Elannas fingers slip somewhat.

"It is just…I have always assumed that my buttocks are acceptable. They function well –I am able to sit comfortably, and they provide the counterbalance necessary to remain vertical. I do not see why you should find them so unattractive," says Seven.

B'Elanna thinks Seven sounds a little hurt, but what is she supposed to do?

"Y-your butt is fine, Seven," says B'Elanna. Then she wonders if Seven really uses her butt for counterbalance.

"Then why do you not touch it? I am touching yours," she says, rasping her hand roughly to demonstrate, "See –do you feel that? I am squeezing it. Do you feel?"

B'Elanna feels it. B'Elanna really feels it. First, she jerks a little, startled that the Borg would be so brash. Second, she moans, because all of this butt fondling has made her crotch the only thing wetter than her sopping leopard-print bikini bottoms. Third, she makes a sound. An indescribable sound, since adjectives are out-of-date.

"Seven," she says, "I need my top."

She eyes it floating quiescently on the chilly grey surface. She had told Tom, a 46-C, but he insisted on a D-Cup –all part of his stupid plan to coerce the half-Klingon into a new set of breasts. And damn it, if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in this situation.

"That top?" asks Seven, pointing helpfully with her toe.

"Yeah."

Somehow, Seven maneuvers both of them over to the edge of the pier. It takes a lot of shuffling, creating a lot of horrifically pleasant friction, and a bit of jostling around, but they get there with B'Elanna's dignity still in tact.

"This one, right here?" asks Seven, again pointing helpfully with her toe.

"That's the one."

Carefully, very carefully, the young woman dips her foot elegantly below the surface, carefully hooking a strap and drawing it from Poseidon's clutches. B'Elanna lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

B'Elanna then lets out a horrified yelp as a vague shadow below the surface suddenly erupts with a gruesome splash, its wide jaws enveloping her soggy garment, just seconds away from its rescue.

"How improbable!" exclaims Seven. She stands poised on one foot, the other still stuck out above the water, big toe flexed artfully.

B'Elanna swallows her swear.

"Well, now what the hell are we supposed to do?" she says after she takes a moment to admire Seven's balance. She thinks that it must be her butt after all.

"It may take several hours for a new top to float by," Seven says, "You may take this time to explain to me why you do not like my butt, if you like."

B'Elanna groans, but more because Seven returns to fondling.

"We have to get back to the hotel," she says.

"Very well," says Seven.

Abruptly, the Borg pulls away, exposing B'Elanna in all her nipply glory.

This only lasts a split second as the half-Klingon immediately grabs the Borg and covers herself once again.

"That was rude!" she grunts angrily.

"You are rude. You use me! You are using me! Do you hear me? Using me! I am not for concealing breasts, B'Elanna Torres!" Seven shouts indignantly.

"I can't just walk around here naked! People aren't supposed to be naked!" replies B'Elanna.

"Then why did you go and lose your bra? Huh? Why did you lose it?"

"It wasn't my fault!"

"I am leaving! I am going! Good-bye, B'Elanna Torres!"

But as Seven walks away, it is clear B'Elanna is going nowhere. It isn't stopping Seven, though, and it is an intriguing sight to see the a half-Klingon defiantly holding on as a Borg as stomps angrily through the streets, to the Hotel, through the Hotel Lobby, up the turbo lift, and into her room.

"B'Elanna Torres, let go!" shouts Seven finally.

But B'Elanna's hands finally move from Seven's back, down the hairless plane to her plump derriere, which she squeezes and kneads thoughtfully.

"Oh! B'Elanna Torres, you do enjoy my butt!"


End file.
